


I won't be left behind (I'm already here)

by reystars



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Oneshot, but before the Pandorica opens, the Doctor surprises Amy for her birthday, there's only one bed, this takes place after Rory has been eaten by the crack in the wall and erased from Amy's memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23604583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reystars/pseuds/reystars
Summary: The Doctor surprises Amelia Pond with a short birthday trip to 2004 to fulfill a teenage Amy's dream.
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Amy Pond
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	I won't be left behind (I'm already here)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ameliajessica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliajessica/gifts).



> The Eleventh Hour premiered 10 years ago and it was instrumental in bringing us together. So this is a celebration of that era of Who as well as our friendship. Mel, I couldn't imagine my life without you in it! I love you so much!

“Amelia, do you know what tomorrow is?”

Amy is engrossed in a novel when the Doctor mentions it. She’s sprawled out, almost upside down, on the ugly yellow sofa chair she found in the 70s and had dragged into the TARDIS console room so she’d have a comfortable place to lounge while the Doctor does—whatever he does.

“I keep forgetting about ‘tomorrow’,” she quips, moving to a more comfortable sitting position, letting the book fall to the side. The futon has quickly become her favorite place in the entire world, doubled by the fact that the Doctor thinks it’s horrendously ugly. “You know, as a concept.”

The Doctor pokes his head out from behind where he’s fiddling with the navigation, a mischievous look on his face as his brown hair flops into his eyes.

“Well I’ve been keeping track of time, as one does. For you. So you don’t get lost. And Amelia Pond, tomorrow is your birthday!”

Amy nearly bounces off of the couch, delighted.

“My birthday?”

Amy has always loved her birthday. The presents, the attention, feeling like the most important person in the world for an entire day (and for once being right). It was unbelievable that this was her life. That she’d forgotten her favorite thing because she was skipping around the galaxy with a mad man in a time traveling box.

The Doctor is smiling at her, and something warm twists inside her stomach at the thought that he’d been keeping track of time for her, something she hadn’t even considered doing for herself. She knows that living on the fringe of time and space should feel disorienting. But she doesn’t feel untethered or lost.

Really, it’s beginning to feel like home.

As she skips over to the console, the Doctor quickly twists the screen away from her view.

“Doctor—” she says, a smile creeping onto her face. “Are we going somewhere?”

As he hits the buttons, she can see a smile on his face too.

“It’s a surprise,” he says.

 _It’s a surprise._ Something about those words trigger a wave of sadness. It rushes over her, so deep and profound that tears nearly rush to her eyes. A birthday surprise. Her most recent birthday surprise. Something she should remember. Some _one_ she should remember.

The sadness is fleeting, gone almost as quickly as it had rushed over her. She blinks at the Doctor who has frozen, staring at her in concern. She can see that he knows something is wrong as his hands hover over the navigation bar, ready to pull.

She forces a smile onto her face and the Doctor looks away, busing himself with some switches.

“Am I allowed to guess?” she asks, leaning on the console. The strange sadness is forgotten, the memory of it fading.

“Well, I’ll tell you. Since I think you’ll want to get ready for this.”

He tosses something toward her, a ball of cloth. She slowly unravels it to see it’s a large black T-shirt.

She looks up at him questioningly.

“Flip it over,” he smirks.

Her jaw drops.

“No. Way. Doctor. Are you serious?”

Screen printed on the front of the black shirt in neon green is Britney Spears, with “The Onyx Hotel Tour” in bright letters next to it.

The Doctor grins. Amy squeals—literally squeals—throwing her arms around his neck. He hesitates for a moment, so subtle that she wonders if she imagined it, but then caves. Wrapping his arms around her, picking her up and spinning her around.

She pulls away but keeps her hands on his shoulders, beaming up at him.

“How did you know?” she asks.

“Did some digging,” he says. “Wanted to give you the perfect birthday present. All of time and space! What would my Amelia Pond want to do the very most?”

She jumps a little bit, holding onto the T-shirt. She feels sixteen again.

“I had tickets—” she says, clutching the shirt. “—but I wasn’t able to go.”

She pauses. “Which stop?”

“Opening night. Los Angeles, baby!”

She’s absolutely giddy.

The Doctor pulls on the navigation and the TARDIS shudders to life, the lights flickering as the whooshing sound reverberates through the room. Amy darts to the stairs to run and change. She pauses, looking at him over her shoulder.

She’s not sure what she means to say. Something catches in her throat.

“You’re not wearing that, are you?” she says instead.

“What?” he asks, looking down at his tweed suit.

“The suit! You are not going to a Britney concert in a SUIT.”

“But I love my suit. And my bow tie. It’s cool. I look cool.”

“Not Britney cool though.”

“I’ll leave the jacket,” he concedes. “But the bow tie stays ON.”

* * *

Amy bounds back up the stairs.

“Ready!”

She’s cut the loose black tour T-shirt up and paired it black miniskirt with fishnets. There’s glitter all over her cheeks and eyelids and her long red hair is loose around her exposed shoulders. She’s picked out a black choker, and is feeling every bit as excited as she was for a concert when she was sixteen.

The Doctor wheels around.

“Wonderf—”

His voice is caught, turning into a cough. She wonders for a moment if he thinks she’s gone too overboard. His face is unreadable as he stares.

“Um,” he says. “Glitter.”

“Have you never been to a concert before?” she asks, walking up to the console. He’s busying himself with buttons that she’s pretty sure don’t mean anything.

“Plenty!” he says, offended. “I’ve gone to. LOTS. Massive fan of Beethoven. AC/DC. I saw the Beatles BEFORE they were cool. Helped them write the song Yesterday.”

Amy rolls her eyes at him.

“Come on, raggedy man,” she says. “Let’s go.”

“I’m carrying my suit coat with me,” he says stubbornly.

“Whatever,” Amy says, already out the TARDIS door. She stops and he nearly runs into her, grabbing her bare shoulder to steady himself. He drops it immediately, as quickly as if his hands had caught fire.

“Oh. Portaloos,” she says.

The Doctor steps around her, spinning, gaining his bearings.

She watches him run his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. “Must have been the TARDIS’s natural homing instinct. In particularly crowded places it tends to try and blend in. No matter. Come on Pond, let’s go!”

Amelia follows him, leaving the TARDIS behind in a row of nearly identical portable toilets.

* * *

The concert is over. The TARDIS is missing. And the Doctor is currently holding up one quite drunk Amelia Pond.

He’s still reeling from the moment in the concert when she shouted that she wanted something to drink. At least, that’s what he _thinks_ she said. The bass was so loud he couldn’t quite make out her voice as she shouted. Then reached her arm around him, laughing up at him as his eyes widened and her hand slid into his back pocket, pulling out the psychic paper.

Hundreds of years old and Amelia Pond makes him _blush_.

“You—that’s—hold on—” he had tried to protest, but she was gone, reappearing momentarily with two cocktails.

“C’mon it’s a concert!” she had shouted, jumping up and down.

Timelords and alcohol do not mix well. Wibbily wobbily, livery stuff. 

So she’d downed both drinks (and then two more) and he’d pretended to not notice the way her face fell for just a split second during Touch of My Hand, that sadness mingling with confusion, there one moment and gone the next.

He’d held her up as they stumbled out of the venue, trying not to get trampled by thousands of fans. When they’re finally far enough away from the venue to hear properly over the ringing of their ears, Amelia laughs.

“This is most definitely the best birthday I’ve ever had!” she says, leaning her head against his shoulder.

Despite himself, he grins. It never gets old, astonishing people. Dazzling them with the wonders of the universe. But with Amelia, every moment feels new again.

That’s when he realizes it’s gone. The TARDIS is. All of the portable toilets are, presumably picked up by whatever cleaning company had left them there, taking the TARDIS with it. She’s too drunk to leave while he tracks it down, and definitely too drunk to drag around the city.

Hotel room to crash for the night it is, then. She throws up into a roadside bin a few times but they otherwise make it in one piece to the closest motel, and she’s mostly sobered up by the time they make it to the room.

“There’s only one bed,” Amelia observes, ever astute despite her still slightly inebriated state.

“Right,” the Doctor replies, pointing the sonic at it. Just in case of bedbugs. Or other unmentionables. He throws the covers open. “You’ll stay here. After I’ve made sure you’re not puking your guts out, I’ll go track down the TARDIS.”

She hauls herself up into a sitting position and he helps her pull off her strappy heels, haphazardly tossing them in another direction.

As soon as they’re off, Amelia falls face first on top of the bed, groaning into the covers.

“I don’t like it,” she says, her voice muffled.

“What, the bed?” The Doctor asks.

“You leaving me here.”

“I’m not leaving yet,” he says, flipping open his sonic. There should be a tracking mechanism there, somehow. If not, he’ll rewire it.

Amelia crawls into bed, hitting the lamp to shut it off. The room is doused in darkness, the moon shining through the window the only light.

“Do you even sleep?” she asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

“Sometimes,” he responds as the sonic whirs, giving him some direction on where the TARDIS might have gotten to.

“Will you lay with me until I fall asleep, then?” she asks. It’s so quiet he thinks he may have imagined it.

“Wha—Amelia, you’re still drunk,” he says, loosening his collar around his bowtie. Is it hot in here? It suddenly feels rather warm.

“No,” she grumps. “I just want you to wait with me until I’m asleep.”

The Doctor sonics the thermostat. It’s definitely uncomfortably warm in here.

“Please? It’s my birthday.”

The Doctor groans.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll lay next to you. On top of the covers. Until you fall asleep.”

He can see her outline as she snuggles into the covers, patting the spot on top of them next to her.

The Doctor tentatively moves onto the bed next to her, laying down on his back on top of the covers, his head against the flimsy hotel pillow. She’s so quiet for a long time that he wonders if she’s fallen asleep already, that fast.

Then her voice comes out of nowhere in the dark.

“This is how it always should be.”

He’s staring at the ceiling still.

“What, losing the TARDIS and getting stuck in a seedy motel in Los Angeles of all places—”

“No!” she scoffs, rolling over to face him. He can’t make out her expression.

“You. Me,” she continues. “Time and space. This feels right. This is the most right anything has ever felt.”

The guilt rolls over him. He feels her hand reach over, landing on his chest. Right above where both of his hearts are beating. He places his hand over hers with the intention of moving it away from him, but he doesn’t. He just holds it.

“Amelia…” he whispers.

When she doesn’t respond he finally turns his head. Her head is turned on the pillow facing him, barely visible in the moonlight. Her lips are slightly parted, glitter still covering her cheeks, and she’s fast asleep. There’s no stress in her face, no confusion, no worry. Just trust. Her red hair shines like copper in the moonlight, splayed across the pillow like it had looked that very first night. Amelia Pond in her nightgown, a regular Wendy Darling floating among the stars.

He remembers how she’d looked, laughing, as he held onto her ankle. The runaway bride, out to explore the universe. He remembers how he felt, like a life before her had somehow not existed. How he knew he wanted to bring her everywhere, to show her everything.

Each time he regenerates he has to learn who he is again. Oh, of course, he’s the same. At the core he’s the same. But with each new body comes new quirks, new passions, new personality traits. This version of himself, this one that hates apples and loves fish fingers and custard—this version of himself doesn’t know who he is without Amelia Pond next to him.

Perhaps that’s where this guilt is from. Amy has made it clear that she’s all his. His companion, his eyes through which he can see the universe new again. This firey, determined Scottish girl. One that’s only his because she doesn’t remember what she’s lost. Her life forever altered because of him.

He slowly moves her hand off of his chest. The spot where it was just moments before feels cold and empty, and he rests it between them, her long fingers relaxing on the bed. Her nails always painted. Royal blue.

And then, just because he can’t help it. Just because maybe he’s permitted—after everything he’s seen, after everything he’s lost—one small moment of selfishness. He reaches for her hair. Brushing the tips of it softly with his fingertips. One stolen moment as he watches her sleep. Then, against all odds, he feels his eyelids drooping. Maybe he’s a bit tired of running too.

* * *

Amy wakes up with a hangover that would rival most of her teenage years. Her hair is a mess around her face, she can feel it. She can also feel an arm around her waist, and soft, even breathing on her neck. She freezes for a moment.

There’s no way.

She slowly pries herself away, rolling over slowly and carefully to see the Doctor, sound asleep. Something in his face, all relaxed and not shouty or focused, makes him look young. Younger than she knows he is, anyway. She smiles softly, a dimple appearing in her cheek, then slides out of bed. She’s tucking her hair behind her ear and pulling her shoes on when she spots his sonic screwdriver on the bedside table.

She grabs it, and the psychic paper, slipping out of the motel room without a sound.

When she returns through the doorway with bagels and coffee, the Doctor is still asleep, now all limbs sprawled out at awkward angles over the bed, his mouth hanging open. When she shuts the door he wakes with a start, immediately on his feet, glancing around in alarm.

“What? Where? Who?” he asks, clearly disoriented.

Amy laughs, tossing him his sonic.

“Where did you go?”

“Found the TARDIS,” she says.

“Where?” he asks, running a hand through his bed hair, which is six times bigger than usual.

“Just a few alleyways over. I don’t think it actually moved.”

He looks confused for a moment, then annoyed, then—

“Is that a Los Angeles bagel?”

* * *

And she was right, of course. Big, blue, and beautiful, the TARDIS is right where they left it. The Doctor doesn’t know how he had missed it. He follows Amy up to the door, reaching around her to unlock it with the sonic. She pauses before going in, whirling around, nearly smacking him in the face with her hair.

“What?” he asks in alarm.

She reaches up on her tiptoes, throwing her arms around his neck, nearly toppling him over.

“Thank you,” she says. He embraces her back, his fingers sliding into her hair, his head turning into her neck without meaning to. When they pull away she keeps her hands on his shoulders, giving him a kiss on the cheek before flinging the TARDIS door open and skipping inside.

His cheek burns. There’s a lump in his throat and he adjusts his collar, taking a moment before following her inside, shutting the door behind him.


End file.
